THE NOVICE

.

Once upon a time in a city carved out of the Central American jungles, a novice priest of the Feathered Serpent sat on a stone bench in the High Priest’s ante chamber, waiting for the High Priest to finish with a sacrifice.

.

.

The novice rehearsed in his mind what he was going to say to the High Priest. Suddenly, the door opened, and the usher – resplendent in his brightly feathered robes – came out and beckoned the novice into the audience chamber. The High Priest was standing at the window, looking down at the bustling metropolis.

“Praise the Feathered Serpent,” the novice intoned.

The High Priest looked away from the window and barely acknowledged the salutation.

“Please sit down,” the High Priest said. He gestured to a stone bench by the wall. Both novice and High Priest sat down together.

“How long have you been a novice here at the temple?” the High Priest asked.

“Two years, Excellency.”

“Two years. I talked to the faculty about you. They tell me that you are a good student. Hard working and spiritually gifted.”

“Thank you, Excellency.”

“So what went wrong out there today?”

The novice expected the question, but not the bluntness of its delivery. He swallowed hard before answering.

“I have no excuse, Excellency.”

“I’m not looking for excuses. I want an explanation. You’ve been here two years. You’ve probably assisted in hundreds of sacrifices. Today was your first unassisted solo. So what went wrong?”

“I really don’t know, sir. Everything was going fine. I recited the prayer, made the first incision and reached into the prisoner’s chest cavity. I felt the Feathered Serpent watching over and guiding me, I swear. I’m sure the crowd felt it too. I found myself holding the beating heart up high, showing it to the crowd. It was glorious.”

“And then…” The High Priest prompted.

“And then the heart just slipped out of my hand and went flying. I think it hit someone in the head.”

The novice sat silent in his shame and disgrace. But then, to his utter amazement and relief, the High Priest laughed.

“You know,” the High Priest said. “many in the crowd hope that the priest performing the sacrifice will slip up.”

“You really think so?”

“It’s human nature. Heck, its cheap entertainment. The peasants even wager on it.”

“They do?”

“Yes. We tried to stop it once, but we gave up. I’m sure the betting was rather heavy on your first solo.”

“And I am thoroughly ashamed -“

“Don’t be. It happens to the best of us. I know.”

“To you?” the novice asked.

“No, but it happened to my great and noble predecessor.”

.

.

“Really?”

“Sure. I was there. The old coot hadn’t performed a sacrifice for over ten years, you know, being busy with administrative duties. But it was the Feast of the Flatulent Twins and he decided to do it himself. I’ll never forget it. There he was – on the sacrificial platform at the top of the pyramid – he made the cut, reached into the chest cavity, pulled out the heart, and lifted it up – still beating – to show it to the crowd below on the steps. And then, pop! It shot out his hand and up into the air. You never saw an old man move so fast. He tried to catch it with his other hand, but that heart shot into the air again. This went on for about five grabs when he finally missed and the heart plopped onto the steps in front of him. Talk about embarrassing.”

“It’s hard to believe.”

“Believe it. But the next day it was forgotten, and my old master served as high priest for another ten years, and even performed – successfully – a sacrifice or two. And that’s my point. Don’t let this little mistake shake your confidence. When you fall off of a llama what do you do? You get right back up on that llama and ride it!”

RIKUZENTAKATA, Japan – As Japan’s prime minister held another in an endless stream of press conferences to describe in great detail the Japanese government’s efforts to fix damaged nuclear reactors, frustrated tsunami victims complained that the government has been too focused on the nuclear crisis that followed the massive wave.

“Hey! Over here! 165,000 people living in cardboard boxes and packing crates! HELLO?? Is anyone home??” 35-year-old Megumi Shimanuki shouted at the Prime Minister from the crowd gathered at the press conference. “Yeah, yeah, highly radioactive water is leaking into the sea. Blah, blah, blah. I need a house,” Shimanuki yelled.

“Go find the corporate executives and their stooge government regulators who willfully and knowingly decided to operate unsafe nuclear reactors right near the ocean, line them up against a wall, and shoot them,” suggested Ken Hashimoto, a fellow tsunami evacuee.

.

.

“Kill them all, then confiscate their multiple homes, expensive automobiles and jewelry they bought with the profits they made cutting safety corners. Sell that property and use the money to get me some food,” Hashimoto added.

In response to charges of criminal regulatory negligence that resulted in the clearly apparent failure to build and maintain safe nuclear reactors, the Japanese government vowed to review Japan’s nuclear safety standards.

“We will review them, if we can find them,” promised Ken Fujikuma, Head of the Japanese Nuclear Industry Regulatory Commission and Late Night Drinking Games.

Fujikuma also pledged to “look into” the wisdom of running while holding scissors and playing Russian Roulette with fully loaded hand guns.

MUNCIE – About 2.8 million children and 2 million people aged 65 and older are treated each year at U.S. hospital emergency rooms for head injuries due to accidental falls, says the Open Head Wound Institute (OWHI) located in Muncie, Indiana.

“That accounts for 15% of all head wounds,” says Dr. Krista Schnurstein, Director of OWHI’s Open Head Wound Research and Development Department. “The other 85% of head wound incidents are attributed to angry wives,” Schnurstein continues.